


I will build for my family a bulletproof love

by withdiamonds



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-11
Updated: 2011-10-11
Packaged: 2017-10-24 12:37:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/263540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withdiamonds/pseuds/withdiamonds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the days and weeks following John's death, Sam and Dean hole up at Bobby's.  Dean works on fixing the car, needing to rebuild their family home for him and Sam.  Sam stews and fidgets over Dean's grief and anger, dealing with his own grief and guilt, looking for cases to distract his brother.  Takes place after IMTOD, on through ELAC.  In other words, spoilers through 2.02.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I will build for my family a bulletproof love

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by . Thank you so much, A, for taking the time to help me straighten this out. Thanks as always to for listening to the unending whining. Title from "Flat of the Blade" by Massive Attack.

Sam stares at the flames that engulf and consume his father's body. The fierce heat radiating from the pyre penetrates the numbness that's gripped him for the past two days, and his breath catches in his throat.

Wood crackles sharply, and the air around the fire shimmers.

Sam's eyes ache with smoke and unshed tears. John Winchester is dead, and even as Sam watches his body burn, he doesn't quite believe it. It should be impossible.

In all those years of being angry and scared, it never occurred to Sam that his father might actually die. Not really. He thought John would somehow always be there.

Waiting for Sam to get his head out of his ass.

Meanwhile, Sam spent four years at Stanford, staying away and nursing his anger, his sense of ill-usage, and now it's too late.

"Before he…before, did he say anything to you? About anything?" Sam doesn't know what he's hoping for. Maybe some hint as to what went on while Sam was gone, having been conveniently sent to fetch coffee, coming back only to find his father dead on the hospital floor.

Who's he kidding? Sam knows exactly what he's hoping for. He's waiting for Dean to say, "Sure, Sammy. Dad said he's always loved you best, and he forgives you for every angry word and every fight you two ever had. He forgives you for leaving us and ignoring us for four years."

Instead, Dean says, "No, nothing." He stares straight ahead, refusing to look at either Sam or the funeral pyre. He hasn't met Sam's eyes since they got to Bobby's. Sam's been too numb to call him on it.

The sheets he and Dean had wrapped so carefully around their father begin to burn, falling away in curling, black-edged pieces. Sam can't look any more; he won't watch his father's flesh melt and his bones turn to ashes.

He takes a step or two back, then turns and walks deeper into the woods. He moves only far enough away to where the smell isn't so strong, then he just tries not to think while he waits for the rushing crackle of the flames to die away.

It takes a long time.

"Sam."

Sam turns back toward Dean, toward what's left of the father he loved and fought with equal passion. John's ashes glow in the darkness of the forest, and together he and Dean shovel dirt over them, making sure the fire is completely extinguished.

Dean sprinkles salt over the dirt, his jaw clenched.

Sam feels a desperate need to say something, _anything,_ that will make everything better, but he can't imagine what that would be.

There has to be something that will make Dean look at him.

"Dean –" Sam starts, and then he stops, because Dean is walking away from him, back to the beat up old pickup truck they borrowed from Bobby.

It's about a fifteen minute walk through the woods and out onto the road where they left the truck. Bobby thought it was risky to burn John's body in the middle of a forest, was sure they'd set the whole state on fire or something, but Dean had ignored him.

He'd just gone about the business of liberating two of Bobby's sawhorses and several two-by-fours to make a pyre and loaded them into the back of the truck, along with lighter fluid and salt.

The very last thing Sam wanted to do was help Dean prepare John's body, but he owed it to him, to both of them, and so together he and Dean wrapped their father in a clean white sheet and gently laid him in the bed of the truck.

They'd left him dressed in the clothes he'd died in, because what difference did it make? They arranged him with his hands folded over his chest, his wedding ring glinting in the sunlight.

When they wrapped his head, their hands fumbled with the weight of the body, and when the sheet finally covered up his father's face, Sam's stomach swooped in panic at the idea that John was gone.

They had driven out of Bobby's yard as the sun was setting, Sam riding in the truck bed with his father. Words of apology and grief stuck at the back of his throat, refusing to come out. There really wasn't anybody there to hear them, anyway.

When they reach the truck, Dean gets in, turning the key quickly, impatience in his every movement. The drive back to Bobby's is silent, both of them lost in thought.

A world without John Winchester seems almost unimaginable to Sam. His whole life, John had seemed to be an all-powerful being, someone with ultimate control over the world and almost everything in it, especially his two sons.

And now there's nothing left of the father who, for better or for worse, defined Sam's life. He no longer exists.

*

It's hot out here in Bobby's yard, and the sun beats down on Dean's back. The skin of his neck is stiff and tender with a week's worth of sunburn.

He ignores it, just like he ignores Sam when he makes his occasional forays outside to either bring Dean food or try to badger him into sharing and caring.

The food is welcome; the conversation most certainly is not.

Bobby, at least, has the good sense to leave Dean alone.

The Impala is broken, but she's not destroyed. The core is still there, mostly undamaged. She's going to take a long time to repair, though.

Dean doesn't begrudge her any of that time. She's the bedrock of their lives, and he will never let her go.

He sorts through the tools set in front of him. They're laid out on a bench, carefully placed, waiting for his hands to make them come alive. Dean knows what each one of them can do.

His dad taught him everything he knows about cars, about this car in particular.

And now she's Dean's, and he has to make her whole again.

Dean works until the sun starts to go down, cool evening breeze feeling like heaven on the back of his neck.

Straightening up, he eases the kinks out of his back and drains the last of the water from the bottle Sam brought him hours ago. The water is tepid and stale tasting, but it soothes his dry throat.

Bobby's just serving up supper when Dean makes his way to the kitchen. Sam's already seated at the table with his nose in one of Bobby's dusty old books. Dean can almost guarantee there's a chapter or two about demon lore in there.

He grabs a beer out of the fridge and sits down across from Sam. Bobby sets a pot of chili in the middle of the table with a noticeable _clunk_.

Dean looks up at him, eyebrows raised in a question.

"You know you boys are more than welcome to stay here as long as you like," Bobby says. "But I ain't exactly a chef, and I'm running out of things to feed you, unless you're a fan of beans in a can."

Dean makes himself smirk, his facial muscles feeling like they've almost forgotten how, and he kicks at Sam's foot under the table. "Sammy here can take a turn, can't you, Emeril?" His jibe is half-hearted. Dean feels like he's on autopilot most of the time, except when he's working on the car. And nobody will let him do that 24/7, so…he's doing the best he can to keep up appearances. Otherwise, Sam will get weird.

Weirder.

Sam just looks at him with that mixture of expectation and pity that sets Dean's teeth on edge. Sam's waiting for something, and it's really starting to piss Dean off.

Bobby watches them both, a degree of sympathy in his eyes that doesn't do much for Dean's mood, either. He thinks they're both probably waiting for him to fall apart or go postal.

Maybe if he gets his gun and shoots out all the lamps in Bobby's library, or beats the shit out of the refrigerator, they'll back off and give him some breathing room.

Dean digs into his chili without saying anything else. After a minute, Sam and Bobby do, too.

"Sure, I can cook once in a while," Sam says eventually, picking up the thread of their abandoned conversation. "I can do the basics; mac and cheese, grilled cheese, cheeseburgers –"

Again, Dean appreciates the attempt, but he still doesn't look up from his plate.

"I can do the basics, too, Sam," Bobby huffs. "I'm looking for something a little more – exciting. A little more than cheese."

Dean loses track of the conversation after that. He doesn't really care what they eat.

After supper, as usual, Bobby shoos them out of the kitchen – "I know where everything goes. You two chuckleheads'll screw with my system if I let you wash the dishes" – and Dean calls him a fussy old woman.

When they get to the other room, Sam settles on the couch with his laptop. Dean plucks it right out of his hands.

"Hey," Sam protests mildly. Bobby's old demon book is on the table next to him, and Dean knows he'll have his nose buried in it soon enough that he won't miss his computer.

"I need to order some parts for the car," Dean says, plopping down on the couch next to Sam and jostling his arm.

Sam elbows him back without heat and says, "What, there's actually something you need that Bobby doesn't have?" He flaps his hands around, obviously including the entire salvage yard in his gesture.

Dean sighs. There are a lot of things he needs for the car that Bobby doesn't have. He opens the computer and types in the URL for his favorite website that isn't _Busty Asian Beauties._

Closing his eyes, Dean pictures the rear fenders and quarter panels. He can probably salvage most of the body on the passenger side of the car, pound out the dents, but the driver's side is smashed all to hell.

At least the car is made of solid Detroit steel, instead of fiberglass or aluminum, or whatever it is they make cars out of these days.

Since he's using fake credit cards for most of what he needs, he plans on spreading his purchases out over several different suppliers. Maybe see what he can get on eBay, although he needs to be careful there, identity-wise.

Won't do for Eugene Hammersmith to get bad feedback.

In the end, Dean orders a fender and a rear quarter panel, along with a couple of trunk side braces. It's a good start, and he can always order more later if he needs to.

He closes the laptop and puts it on the floor at his feet. Sam pretends not to look at him, keeping his eyes on his book. One ankle is crossed over the other, and his left arm stretches out across the back of the couch, warm fingers barely touching Dean's shoulder. His foot is jiggling.

Sam does a lot of things very well. Subtle isn't always one of them.

Standing up, Dean stretches with a sigh, holding his right wrist in this left hand over his head and pulling. He in turn pretends not to notice that Sam has finally torn his gaze away from his book and is staring at Dean's stomach, where his shirt riding up has left it bare. Dean can feel the tips of his ears get warm.

He coughs and says, "I'm heading up to bed."

Dean doesn't really do subtle, either.

*

Sam can't tell if that was supposed to be an invitation or not. Dean has always been the king of mixed messages, and even after a year on the road together again, Sam feels like he gets it wrong more often than he gets it right.

It's early evening yet. Bobby's outside somewhere, probably checking to make sure the place is secure for the night. Sam's not exactly sleepy, but what if Dean wants him to come upstairs now? What if Dean wants Sam to – to what?

Sam shakes his head. He can't read Dean as well as he should when it comes to this thing between them. All Sam knows is that a year ago, when Dean saved him from the fire that killed Jess the same way he'd saved him from the fire that killed Mom, Sam had trouble breathing when Dean was around. It was all too much; too much togetherness, too much grief and guilt, too many memories.

Now he can barely breathe when Dean _isn't_ close by. It's the stupidest thing, and it happened so gradually that Sam took forever to figure it out.

A year on the road, crammed in the car together, has been enough to remind Sam of all the obnoxious things his brother does. It's also been enough to make him wonder how he managed to go four years without Dean's ten million annoying habits to make faces at and bitch about.

He hears Bobby come in, listens to him lock the door and lay a salt line down in front of it, hears him check the windows one by one. It's a ritual Sam's known for as long as he can remember. No matter where they were or who they were staying with, it varied only by the number of doors and windows to be secured.

It's oddly comforting and has always made Sam feel safe, although these days he knows that real safety is an illusion.

He relaxes and decides to take a chance and go upstairs to his brother. Heading toward the stairs, he nods at Bobby as they pass in the hall.

"Hey, Sam, you heading up already? I got something I wanted you to look at."

Sam glances up the stairs, listening for the sound of Dean moving around, settling in for the night.

Waiting for Sam.

A few minutes won't hurt. "Yeah, sure, Bobby. What've you got?"

It takes longer than he thought it would, and partway through an article on demon omens, Sam completely loses track of the time. It's almost an hour later when he puts the book down with a start.

"Shit."

Bobby looks at him oddly. "What's wrong?"

Sam blinks. "Oh, um, nothing. Just hadn't realized how late it is, that's all." His ears burn, and Bobby just keeps staring at him. "Think I'll turn in," Sam says, getting to his feet.

"Yeah, sure, kid," Bobby says, as he goes back to poking through the mess on his desk.

When Sam gets upstairs, Dean's asleep in the bed closest to the wall, curled up on his side with his back to the rest of the room.

Sam spends more time than he should studying the curve of Dean's spine under his t-shirt, his hands trembling with the effort it takes not to reach out.

He's unsure of his welcome at this point, not sure what to do with the mood Dean's been in since Dad died.

Eventually, he brushes his teeth and crawls into his own bed. It takes him a long time to fall asleep, even though the sound of Dean breathing has been lulling him to sleep for most of his life.

Dean's already awake and gone when Sam feels the sun on his face the next morning. Blinking awake, he turns to look at Dean's empty bed. The rumpled covers and dented pillows beckon him. He wants to crawl between Dean's sheets and never come out.

Sam sighs and stretches instead, shutting off that train of thought. The idea of falling back to sleep is appealing, if only because then he could at least stop over-thinking everything for five minutes.

But Bobby's in the kitchen, and Dad's stuff is in the library. While Dean seems to treat Dad's truck like it's some kind of interloper, glaring at it when Bobby brought it back from Lincoln and towed it into the yard, Sam is at least grateful for its contents.

He swings his feet over the side of the bed and sits up. They're never going to find the demon unless Sam can figure out what Dad was thinking. His research is fucking amazing, in an incomprehensible kind of way, but Dean doesn't seem to be interested in trying to make heads or tails of it.

Dean is obsessed with the car. Sam feels a twinge of guilt at his own irritation. Of course the car is important, but not more important than hunting down that motherfucking demon and killing the shit out of it.

*

Dean's under the car when Sam comes out at mid-morning. As near as he can tell, Sam's sole purpose is to annoy him. Dean makes no move to slide himself out from underneath his baby. Maybe if he stays where he is, Sam will go away.

Dean thought he'd made himself clear last night about what he wanted, but maybe he was subtler than he'd intended to be. For someone who claims to know him so well, sometimes Sam is an idiot.

But for whatever reason, Sam had stayed downstairs, ignoring what Dean thought was a blatant invitation. Dean had tossed and turned in his too-hot bed, fighting with the sheets that kept twisting themselves around his legs, until he thought he'd go nuts.

He refused to jerk off, just on principle, although he'd been tempted to jizz on Sam's bed, and had drifted off sometime before Sam finally came upstairs.

Dean really isn't in the mood for Sam this morning. He grits his teeth and waits him out. When Dean's about ready to burst out from under the car and shake Sam until his teeth rattles, Sam finally speaks.

"Do you need anything?"

Jesus Christ.

"No," Dean says in a flat tone that would make anybody except his infuriating brother back the hell off.

But not Sammy. "Are you sure? I can bring you something to drink if you want."

Dean bites his tongue to keep from asking why Sam didn't just bring a drink out with him in the first place if he was so worried about Dean being thirsty.

Fuck it. "If you thought I was thirsty, Sam, why didn't you just bring me something to drink in the first place?" Dean lets his irritation color his voice even more than before, and he doesn’t look at Sam to see if he reacts to it.

Who's he kidding, there's no _if_ about it. Of course Sam's going to react to Dean's irritation. If Dean's lucky, he'll react by leaving him the hell alone.

"I'll leave you alone, then," Sam says, in his _fine, Dean_ voice. That's a voice Dean's been hearing since Sam learned to talk, and it never fails to make Dean both roll his eyes and soften his tone.

Except for this time. He can't do this now. He just wants to work on the damn car.

"How's the car coming along?" Sam asks, after a few minutes of standing there and _not leaving._

"Slow," Dean answers shortly.

"Need any help?" Is he kidding?

"What, you under a hood? I'll pass."

More silence, until, "Need anything else, then?"

With that, Dean's pretty much had it. He rolls himself out from under the car and stands up, glaring at Sam.

"Stop it, Sam."

"Stop what?" And that innocent _who me?_ tone hadn't worked when Sam was five, and it sure as hell isn't going to work now.

"Stop asking if I need anything. Stop asking if I’m okay. I'm okay. Really. I promise." Jesus, could he sound any more defensive?

Sam sighs. "All right, Dean, it's just…we've been a Bobby's for over a week now, and you haven't brought up Dad once."

Dean feels a flash of rage, but he swallows it down, hides it with sarcasm. "You know what? You're right. Come here. I'm gonna lay my head gently on your shoulder. Maybe we can cry, hug, and maybe even slow dance." He turns his back on Sam dismissively, turns back to his car.

And now Sam gets all huffy, shouting and waving his arms around like a giant scarecrow. "Don't patronize, me, Dean. Dad is dead. The Colt is gone, and it seems pretty damn likely that the demon is behind all of this, and you're acting like nothing happened."

Dean doesn't look at Sam. "What do you want me to say?" It's a damn good question. What the hell can anybody say that's going to make anything better? Sam's obviously thinking the same thing Dean is, that Dad's death has something to do with Dean being alive and kicking.

"Say something, all right? Hell, say anything." There's something in Sam's voice, something almost desperate. Pleading. Dean doesn't know what he wants. "Aren't you angry? Don't you want revenge?"

Revenge? Sure, Dean wants revenge. He wants a lot of things, but that doesn’t mean he's going to get them.

Sam's not finished. "But all you do is sit out here all day long buried underneath this damn car."

"Revenge, huh?"

"Yeah." Sam's expression almost breaks Dean's heart. He looks like a lost little kid, and there's nothing Dean can do about it. All he can do is make it worse.

"Sounds good," Dean says. "You got any leads on where the demon is? Making heads or tails of any of Dad's research? Because I sure ain't. But you know, if we do finally find it – oh, no wait, like you said, the Colt's gone. But I'm sure you've figured out another way to kill it." Dean stops, watches Sam bite his lip. "We've got nothing, Sam. Nothing, okay? So you know the only thing I can do? Is I can work on the car."

Dean waits, waits for more yelling, for Sam to tell him to go fuck himself, but Sam just takes a deep breath and pulls a cell phone that Dean doesn't recognize out of his pocket.

"Well, we've got something, all right? It's what I came out here to tell you. This is one of dad's old phones. Took me a while, but I cracked his voicemail code. Listen to this."

He hands the phone over to Dean, and Dean holds it up to his ear.

 _John, it's Ellen. Again. Look, don't be stubborn, you know I can help you. Call me._

"That message is four months old," Sam says.

"Dad saved that chick's message for four months?" Dean has no idea who Ellen is.

"Yeah." Sam nods.

"Well, who's Ellen?" Dean considers a minute. "Any mention of her in Dad's journal?"

Sam shakes his head. "No. But I ran a trace on her phone number, and I got an address." Any other time, Dean would call Sam on his smug expression, but for the first time in over a week he feels a spark of something other than numbness. He might even call it interest. It's kind of a relief.

"Ask Bobby if we can use one of his cars."

*

They end up in Medford, Wisconsin, hot on the trail of what turns out to be a rakshasa. Or as hot on the trail as you can get driving a run-down mini-van.

Apparently, the case involves killer clowns. No matter how much things with Sam suck right now, Dean is constitutionally incapable of passing up a chance to mock him. And this is just golden.

There's a weird-ass bar in Nebraska, full of hunters and a woman who knew John. A woman with a daughter that's just Dean's type. Jo talks a good game, and she's probably a tiger in the sack, but Dean's heart isn't in it. He can barely dredge up the energy to flirt.

Besides, he values his balls right where they are, and whatever the hell the situation is between him and Sammy, it would _not_ be improved by Dean fucking some blonde in a bar.

Dean doesn't know whether to laugh at the Roadhouse or to be impressed by its existence. It's like a clubhouse for hunters, and that's just surreal. It's not like they haven't met other hunters over the years, but seriously? A hangout? It seems like a bad idea to Dean, but then, Dad always was a secretive bastard, and his quest to find the demon that killed Mom was something special, above and beyond the usual supernatural stuff.

Of course he wouldn't let himself become part of the hunting social circle.

At least they've got this Ash guy working on Dad's research.

Dean wonders again how much more there is that John kept from them. From him. Trust his dad to tell him something as fucked up as Dean having to either kill Sammy or save him, but not bother to share anything that might make it easier to figure out what the hell he needs to do about it.

Ellen offers to let them crash at the Roadhouse before they go after Ronald McPsycho, but Dean doesn't want to feel obligated. They drive for a few hours, until they find a motel where Bobby's mini-van sadly looks right at home.

The Bluebell Inn. Unfuckingbelievable.

There are ruffled curtains at the window, fuzzy white comforters, and bluebells all over the wallpaper.

Even Sam is thrown a little off-balance when they walk into their room, and he stopped reacting to the kind of places they stay when he was around ten years old.

The constant _I just think that's what Dad would want me to do_ refrain from Sam is beginning to set Dean's teeth on edge, though.

"I'm going for food," Dean says, not looking at his brother, and he's out the door before Sam can say a word. He doesn't feel at all bad about the flash of hurt he sees on Sam's face before he shuts the door. Not at all.

Sam's nose is buried in his laptop when Dean gets back. He doesn't look up, but his eyes flick in Dean's direction, just for a second.

They eat in silence, Sam still at the table and Dean on the bed, his boots getting mud all over the fluffy white bedding. He flips through about a million channels, stopping on SciFi. This place has great cable, anyway.

Dean wakes up in the dark, the TV off and Sam sleeping in the other bed, sprawled out on his back. Dean watches him and wants, but he has no idea what to do about it.

They finally have it out along the side of the road, and Dean tells Sam just exactly what he thinks, how Sam's sudden allegiance to their father is too little, too late. He doesn't mean to hurt Sam, but he's trying to be honest with him, to make him see what he's doing.

But once they're at Bobby's again, Sam turns it back on him when he admits Dean is right, while at the same time insisting that Dean isn't okay, and that he needs to face that.

"I'm not okay. But neither are you."

And so Dean takes a crowbar, one of the tools he's been using to rebuild their car, and turns it against her, smashes it again and again into the only real home they've ever known.

Dean slams the crowbar down over and over until his arms and shoulders protest, and he can't do it anymore. He hits the trunk one more time, a last feeble blow, and then flings the crowbar away from him like it's burning his hand.

That night Dean stays out in the yard, doesn't come in until well after dark.

Sam and Bobby let him. They leave him alone, and no one comes to see where he is, to check on him or ask him if he's hungry. Dean's both relieved and oddly hurt by that.

When he finally comes inside, Sam's asleep on the couch, his long legs bent at an impossible angle in order to fit.

Dean watches him sleep. Sam's eyelids flutter, and he shifts restlessly. Dean shoves his hands in his pockets to keep himself from reaching out and touching.

He turns and goes upstairs to the room they share, shedding his clothes and not bothering to do more than piss before falling face first into bed.

He's beyond exhausted. He's tired down to his very soul, a bone-deep weariness he's not sure he can climb back from.

Everything is just so fucked.

*

 

When Sam wanders out into the yard the next morning, his eyes widen when he sees the car. He doesn't say anything, just glances quickly at Dean, then away, before Dean catches him.

Something about the trunk of the Impala being so battered and beaten hurts Sam, makes him want to grab onto Dean and never let him go.

Instead, he turns around and goes back to Bobby's house, goes inside and sits on the couch, an open book in his lap, staring unseeingly at Bobby's walls.

When his stomach tells him it's time for lunch, Sam realizes he hasn't even turned one page.

The next few days pass in something very much like silence. Bobby's not the type to talk unless he has something to say, and Dean's not really talking at all.

Sam would talk, but he doesn't want to find out that no one will answer him if he does.

Things were tense when they were hunting the rakshasa, but at least they were talking. There was a détente of sorts, and so Sam busies himself looking for another hunt. Maybe if they leave Bobby's again for a little while, hunt something, he'll get more than monosyllabic grunts from Dean.

It takes a few days, but he eventually manages it.

He's been searching newspapers and the internet for anything that resembles a case. Finally he finds something that looks real.

"Hey, Dean, look at this," Sam says when Dean comes inside in the late afternoon. He waves a newspaper at him, wanting to get his attention before he disappears upstairs. "Couple of dead kids in Des Moines, each of them locked in a closet. They both spent some time at –" he looks down at the newspaper. "Shady Mist Orphanage. And get this – cause of death in both cases was starvation, even though they'd only been missing for twelve hours or so and were perfectly well-fed and healthy when they disappeared."

Sam abruptly shuts up. He knows he's babbling.

Dean just looks at him, expression unreadable, one foot on the bottom step. He's already halfway gone. "You want to go work another case," he says flatly. It's more of a statement than a question.

Sam nods. "Yeah. I do."

"I really want to work on the car, Sam," Dean says. Sam feels a flash of impatience. He wants the car fixed as much as Dean does, but he just has to get them away from here for a little while. He thinks maybe they're both going insane here.

"Can't you take a break?" Sam asks.

Something flickers in Dean's eyes, maybe irritation, maybe something else. "I guess, but goddamn it, Sam, I need to fix the damn car." There's a determination there that Sam knows well; he's seen it a million times over the years.

Dean's going to fix the car come hell or high water.

"I know. Hell, Dean, I want the car back, too." Sam tries a small smile. "I miss it."

Bobby comes in then, looking carefully between the two of them. "You find another case, Sam?" he asks. He sounds curious.

"Yeah, Bobby. Couple of healthy, well-fed boys starved to death in a matter of hours, locked in a closet."

"Sounds interesting. My money's on some kind of shroepster."

"Gesundheit," Dean says. He finally takes his foot off the stairs and turns toward Bobby. "What the hell is that?"

"It's a spirit that feeds on live human bodies," Bobby says. "Through a probe."

"Ew." Dean scrunches up his nose.

"Anyway," Sam interjects. "We should go check it out."

Dean turns on him. "How are we gonna do that, Sam? None of Bobby's cars run, apparently."

He's obviously still scarred by having to drive a mini-van to go check out that fucking killer clown.

"You wanna borrow another car, you get one running," Bobby says. He sounds crankier than he really is, Sam can tell, but Dean scowls at him anyway. "Where's my mini-van, huh?"

He hadn't been too pleased when they'd shown up without it, although Sam thinks mostly he was just glad that they'd come back without killing each other.

"That piece of shit? You're better off without it. Come on, Bobby, I'm trying to get my car – " Dean breaks off, his expression angry and frustrated. Bobby's face softens.

"I know, kid." The kindness in Bobby's voice only makes Dean's frown deepen. "Tell you what," Bobby says. "I got a Ford Pinto out back, only needs an hour or so of work to get her running again. Me and Sam'll fix us something for supper, you go poke around in her engine, see what you can do."

Dean looks absolutely aghast, and Sam thinks it's because Bobby wants him to stop working on the Impala for five minutes.

"A Ford Pinto? Are you fucking with me, Bobby? Because I don't think you want to fuck with me right now, not about that."

Okay. Apparently the very idea of Dean driving a Pinto is enough to have him cussing at Bobby as if Bobby were the one who took a crow bar to the Impala.

Because Sam knows full well what Dean did to his car, and he's so shaken by that he hasn't been able to figure out how to even broach the subject. It's another reason he wants to check out this hunt – he definitely needs to get Dean away from the car for a couple of days.

Displaced anger, Sam thinks. Dean is so mad at himself it just spreads out like toxic waste, contaminating everybody, catching Sam in the fallout.

"Don't you take that tone with me, boy," Bobby says, and Sam can tell he's almost as mad now as Dean is.

Dean must see it, too, if the way he holds his hands out is any indication. "Sorry, sorry, didn't mean to impugn your taste in cars," Dean says. If that's supposed to soothe Bobby's feelings, Sam would like to point out that it's not working.

"Uh, Dean," Sam says. Both Bobby and Dean turn to look at him, both of them frowning fiercely. Now it's Sam's turn to hold his hands out, placating. "Hey, I don't mind riding in a Pinto," he says to Bobby. "Even though they are crap cars," he adds hurriedly, trying to forestall another outburst from Dean.

"I don't care if you have to _walk_ all the way to Des Moines," Bobby says, stalking out of the room.

Sam looks at Dean and shrugs. Dean just turns and stomps out in the other direction. Sam sighs and follows Bobby to the kitchen.

They work together silently for a while, putting together some sort of fake Italian meat dish, using half-thawed ground beef, macaroni, canned tomatoes and a whole lot of garlic. One thing Bobby has in spades is fresh spices. He's always growing things in case he needs them for some arcane ritual, so there's plenty of oregano and basil.

Sam doesn't know a lot of rituals where basil is a key ingredient, other than spaghetti sauce, but he's not going to point that out, not when the food smells good.

After about fifteen minutes, Bobby pauses in the middle of chopping oregano and sighs. Sam looks over at him from the stove, where he's browning the ground beef, hacking at the frozen lumps with an ancient plastic spatula.

"I'm so mad at your Dad I could spit nails," Bobby says, not looking at Sam.

"I know the feeling," Sam replies. Bobby does look at him then, and he relaxes, most of the tension leaving his face. He nods at Sam and they finish making supper while discussing the ins and outs of Latin grammar.

Dean shows up around dusk. The fireflies are just beginning to come out, and they twinkle behind him as he stands framed in the doorway, pausing before he comes in the house. He has grease across one cheek and on his hands, and his t-shirt is stained dark with sweat. Something twists in Sam's chest, and he just plain wants.

The expression on Dean's face is one of mixed defiance and apology, and he tries a sheepish smile when he sees Bobby.

Bobby just waves him in with an irritable, "Shut the door, you wanna let every bug in town in? There's still some supper left in the kitchen – I stopped Sam before he ate it all."

Dean nods and heads to the kitchen. Sam listens to the water run as Dean washes the grease off his hands. He wants to go talk to Dean, but he doesn’t know what to say that won't make him more angry.

He settles for pretending to poke through Dad's research while he listens to the sounds coming from the kitchen.

*

Even thought the Pinto is a piece of shit, there's something soothing about working on a car that wasn't damaged by demonic activity and that doesn't hold the memories of a lifetime in it's scarred and dented body.

It's just a piece of shit, plain and simple, that's just the way it rolled off the assembly line, and Dean feels like he can breathe, at least for a little while.

He's not sure why he can't let go of his anger at Sam. It's not like Sam's done anything so very awful. He's just being _Sam_ , is all.

For someone who makes it look like he's spewing his feelings all over the place, Sam actually keeps a tight rein on his really strong emotions. He thinks he's all smooth and analytical, but Dean's known the guy all his life. He knows how much anger is under the calm surface.

By the time Dean gets the Pinto running, it's almost dark. The setting sun slants across Bobby's scrap yard, and the golden shadows make everything seem less ugly.

When Dean goes in the house, Sam looks up from the pile of Dad's papers that he's always got his nose buried in, and Dean feels a jolt of hunger shoot through him.

Just one more thing they're not on the same page about, it seems. He'd thought –

Bobby yells at him to shut the door and Dean blinks, mumbling something about food.

He eats alone in the kitchen, some kind of spaghetti-like food that he shovels in with enthusiasm. He guesses it's been a while since he's eaten, what with him refusing every offer of sustenance Sam made whenever he came out into the yard to bug Dean all day.

Dean drains the last of his beer and then makes up his mind.

It's time to be a little less subtle. He goes into the other room and heads for the stairs. Bobby's nowhere in sight, and Dean clears his throat.

Sam looks up, his face changing when he sees Dean standing there, one foot on the bottom step. Dean feels like an idiot, but then Sam gives him a tentative smile.

Dean nods, then turns and makes his way up to their room.

*

Once they're upstairs, things are awkward as hell. Sam feels like a teenager on his first date, and that sort of makes him want to kill himself. He hasn't touched Dean since before they found Dad, and well, obviously they weren't going to do anything stupid with him around.

And now Dean is in so much pain it hurts Sam to look at him. All his defenses are up, and while Sam is the world's foremost expert on getting past Dean Winchester's defenses, it hasn't felt right to push.

Sam's not exactly in a good place himself at the moment, and the potential to royally fuck things up is pretty high.

They move around each other uneasily, taking turns in the bathroom, stripping off their clothes.

It had taken a lot of work on Sam's part to even get Dean to agree to sleep in one of the spare bedrooms upstairs. Dean was too jittery when they first got to Bobby's to settle down, preferring to camp out in the living room, but there was no way Sam was spending however long it took Dean to fix the car sleeping bent up like a pretzel on Bobby's too-short couch.

Dean pulls his t-shirt off over his head and stands holding it in his hands. Sam watches hungrily as all that warm, smooth skin appears. There's a smudge of grease on Dean's right bicep, and Sam reaches out to rub a finger over it.

Dean meets his eyes, and the uncertainty on his face makes Sam pause, his hand in mid-air. "Dean?"

For a minute Dean looks so vulnerable it makes something catch in Sam's chest. He blinks at Sam, his expression lost.

"I don't know what to do, Sammy."

"I do," Sam says. He reaches out again, this time to gently take the shirt out of Dean's hands and toss it on the dresser. "Come here."

Dean comes, lets Sam pull him closer. Sam sits on the edge of his bed and pulls Dean to stand between his legs. He unbuckles Dean's belt and unzips his jeans, all without taking his eyes off Dean's face.

Dean looks back at him, and the lost expression clears a little. He nods, and Sam hooks his thumbs in the waistband of Dean's jeans and boxers and slides them down his thighs.

He holds Dean's hips in his hands and places a soft kiss on his stomach. Dean sucks in a breath, and Sam slowly makes his way down, nosing at Dean's cock.

"I wish," Sam starts. "There are so many things I wish were different. Things I wish had happened differently."

Dean doesn't say anything, doesn't even nod. He just stands there looking down at Sam with that helpless look in his eyes.

Sam takes Dean's cock in his hand, leans forward and mouths at the head, then swallows it down. The weight of Dean on his tongue, the bitter flavor of it, grounds him. Dean shudders, and Sam holds tight with the hand that's still on his hip.

"Sam," Dean whispers. His voice is hoarse, like it hurts him to talk.

Sam pulls off. "Just let me," he says. Dean nods, and Sam takes Dean in his mouth again.

He's missed this, and he's not stupid, he knows Dean has, too, even if he won't admit it out loud.

It takes Sam's hands on Dean's hips to hold him up when he comes, trembling and gasping Sam's name.

Sam is happy to do it.

He helps Dean kick his clothes the rest of the way off, and Dean sinks down on the bed beside him. When Dean catches his breath, he rolls on his side toward Sam and buries his face in his neck. He wraps his hand around Sam's cock, twisting with a knowledge born of experience, and he has Sam coming within minutes.

Sam curls into himself, Dean's warm breath on his neck making it more intense, and when he's done, when he's trying to catch his own breath, he feels Dean start to move away.

Sam has just enough presence of mind to wrap his arm around Dean's shoulders, to pull him in and hold him there, hard and close.

Dean struggles for a minutes and then relaxes, huffing out a breath.

"Dude, I need to wipe your jizz off my hand, if you don't mind." His voice is uneven, and Sam loosens his hold. Dean sits up and wipes his hand on the sheets, and then hesitates, not looking at Sam.

 _Fuck this,_ Sam thinks, and he pulls Dean back down. His only concession is to allow Dean to roll to his side, his back to Sam, and then Sam's arm is tight around Dean's waist, his chest hard against Dean's back.

It takes a while, but once Sam hears Dean's breathing even out, he closes his eyes and sleeps.

 

*

There's still a chill in the morning air when Sam slams the trunk of the Pinto closed and slides into the passenger seat. Crams himself in is more like it. This is a miserable car, Dean is right.

Sam doesn't tell him that, though, because Dean is back to being withdrawn and irritable. They drive the first fifty miles without exchanging a word. Sam has no idea what to say, so he keeps his mouth shut.

Until he can't stand it another minute.

"What the hell is your problem, Dean?"

"Sam," Dean growls. "Can we not do this?"

"Do what? Have a conversation? I thought – I thought last night – " Sam breaks off. He has no idea what he'd thought last night. That maybe he and Dean had connected again. Apparently not.

"Last night? I don't even know what last night was about," Dean says. Sam would roll his eyes, but he's too annoyed at the drama of it all.

"It was about you and me," Sam says. "What the hell else would it have been about?"

"About getting off, maybe?" There's something in Dean's voice that Sam can't identify, but it makes him hesitate before he rips Dean's head off. It's almost something desperate.

"No, it's not ever just about getting off, you asshole," Sam finally says.

"Well, I can't put my faith in it meaning much more than that," Dean snarls. "I can't put my faith in you hanging around. In you –" he breaks off, looking like he'd like to bite his tongue off.

And Sam feels the heat of them burn in his gut. It hurts. He's never wanted to leave Dean; that's never been the point.

"Well, if that's what you think, Dean, I guess there's not much I can do about it." Sam's too pissed to do anything more than let Dean sit there in the driver's seat of this ridiculous excuse for a car and continue to be the miserable asshole he is.

*

The Shady Mist Orphanage – and what the hell kind of name is that for an orphanage anyway – is situated in the middle of an industrial park on the outskirts of Des Moines. There's neither shade nor mist anywhere in sight, only concrete and asphalt. The architecture is practically Soviet with its cement block construction, while the façade is Dickensian in its grimness.

Sam whistles as he unfolds himself from the Pinto. He swears the car is trying to cling him, and he gives his foot one last tug to free himself from its clutches.

He's certainly done his share of bitching about the way he and Dean grew up, but at least it never included being stuck in a place like this. And they haven't even been inside yet.

Dean's still not talking to him, so Sam just shuts the car door with a firm _clunk_ and follows him into the building.

They walk into a cool, dim reception area that looks like an old-fashioned hotel lobby. If the hotel had been decaying and empty since 1935, that is.

There's a desk against the far wall, and that's where they head. An elderly woman sits behind it, and she looks up suspiciously at their approach.

"Can I help you?" she asks in a voice that makes it clear she'd rather do no such thing. Her nametag reads "Doris Johnson."

"We're from Child Protective Services, Doris," Dean says with the smarmy smile he always thinks will get him in good with old ladies. It never does - they see right through it every time.

The woman's eyes narrow. "It's Mrs. Johnson. You're not from any CPS office around here," she adds.

"Right, we're from the state office," Sam interjects. They both wave generic CPS badges in front of her face and have them back in their jackets before she can focus on them.

"Yeah, so, Tommy Milburn and Andy Waters," Dean says. "We'd like to talk to someone about their deaths."

Sam shakes his head. Dean has less tact than anybody he's ever met. Directing his most charming, trust-me smile at Mrs. Johnson, Sam says, "Is there somebody we could speak with? Is there a director, perhaps?" He makes himself sound particularly earnest, trying more to goad Dean into a reaction than to break down any defensiveness on the part of Mrs. Johnson.

He chances a quick glance at Dean, hoping to catch an eye-roll at the very least. But Dean's working very hard at ignoring Sam, smiling at Mrs. Johnson in a way that's practically guaranteed to make her call the cops.

Without taking her eyes off of her unwanted visitors, Mrs. Johnson picks up the phone and punches in a number. "There are two men here who says they're from CPS," she says into the receiver, her tone indicating she believes no such thing. "They want to know about Tommy and Andy." Her voice softens a bit as she says the two boys' names.

There's a pause and Mrs. Johnson nods. "Okay."

Glaring up at them, Mrs. Johnson says, "Ms. Reynolds will be right with you."

"Thank you," Sam says, smiling again. The icy glare doesn't thaw in the least.

They wait. Dean peers curiously around the room with an expression on his face that makes Sam think he's as relieved as Sam is that they didn't have to grow up in a place like this. At least Dad managed to stay alive and ahead of the game until he and Dean were too old to get sucked into the System.

That's how Sam always thought of it, the System with a capital "S." He spent his whole childhood with the threat of it over his head, leaning early on how to fly under the radar, to escape the attention of anyone who might be too curious about the Winchester boys.

Mrs. Johnson's continued disapproval makes Sam fidget, until at last a woman comes out from somewhere in the back and approaches them, her heels clicking briskly on the hardwood floor.

She's somewhere in her mid-sixties, kind and motherly looking, and she fixes them with a no-nonsense expression that reminds Sam of his fourth grade teacher in…somewhere in Iowa, maybe.

"My name is Ida Reynolds," she says, holding out her hand. "Call me Ida. May I help you gentlemen with something?" She actually seems eager to talk to them.

"Yes, ma'am," Dean says, taking her hand and shaking it. "Agents Van Halen and Haggar. We're looking into the deaths of –"

"It's about time," Ida bursts out. She looks surprised at herself and then smiles. "I'm sorry. I just can't believe no one's checked into this yet. I mean, besides the police." Her scornful tone leaves them in no doubt of her opinion of the police. She tilts her head at them. "I hope you boys can actually find some answers."

Dean seems to appreciate that she shares _his_ opinion of most law enforcement, and he beams approval at her. Ida blinks a little at that.

Sam knows the feeling.

Once they get settled in Ida's office and turn down cups of tea, Ida says, "I don't believe for one minute that you boys are CPS, and -" she holds up a hand to forestall their protests, "- I also don't believe there was anything natural about those boys' deaths. It just didn't make any sense, any of it." She nods briskly, sips at her own tea, then continues. "I'm not foolish enough to think that there aren't things in this world that can't be explained, or that aren't natural."

Sam and Dean look at each other, and obviously Dean is as unsure as Sam is about what to say here. Finally, Dean shrugs and says to Ida, "Okay, so that makes our job a hell of a lot easier."

"They were good people, the ones who took those boys in," Ida tells them. "Both families. It doesn't always happen that way." Her expression is one of weary sadness. "We do our best, but sometimes there's just not a family out there for everyone."

"What do you know about what happened?" Sam asks.

"Not a lot. Just that the deaths happened three days apart, and that on both mornings each boy was fine, and by evening, they were dead, and it looked as if they'd died of starvation," Ida answers, matter-of-fact and succinct.

Dean says, "Can you tell us about Tommy and Andy's friends? Who did they hang out with here?

"Mostly Nick Williams and Peter Wells. The four of them were inseparable, until Tommy and Andy were each adopted, and then Peter was adopted, too, just a month later. Nick was alone then." She sounds almost anguished when she talks about Nick, and Sam thinks maybe running an orphanage isn't a very fun job.

"That must have been rough," Dean says. "Is he still here? Can we talk to him?"

"Oh, no, Mr. Van Halen." Ida pauses, seems to be trying to gather her composure. "Nick died several months ago. He was placed in a foster home, with a family that was new to the system." She stops talking again, and Sam has a very bad feeling about what she's going to say next.

"They starved him to death," she whispers.

*

Dean has to give Ida credit, she doesn't hesitate to tell them the name and address of Peter Well's new family, privacy issues be damned.

"You boys really think he's in danger? You think that Nick – what? I'm not sure I und –"

"Yeah, Ida, we think Nick's a ghost. A vengeful spirit, and he's pissed. We think he killed Andy and Tommy. That he starved them to death, and that Peter's next on his list." Dean stops and considers. "Who set up Nick's foster home?"

Ida just stares at him. Dean hears Sam say _shit_ under his breath.

"I did," she whispers, her eyes wide. "I didn't know –"

"Okay, it's gonna be fine. Sammy and me, we know what to do." Dean turns to Sam. "Come on, dude, let's move."

Sam directs his sappy reassuring smile at Ida, who visibly relaxes, and Dean shakes his head. The kid can work wonders with that smile, there's no denying it.

When they leave the orphanage it's late afternoon, and they're armed with the names and addresses of everyone involved. They decide to head for Peter's house first. There's been no report of him missing, but if Nick keeps going the way he started, Peter is next on his list.

"So why isn't Nick going after his foster parents?" Sam says in the car. He's been quiet for a while, and Dean wonders what he's been thinking about. "I mean, I know they're in jail, but I'd think that's the first place he'd go. Why kill his friends instead?"

"That's a good question, Sam," Dean says dryly. "When we find him, you can ask him, right before we salt and burn his ass."

Sam huffs at Dean's answer, but really. What the hell difference does it make at this point? Dean would like to do his fucking job without having to psychoanalyze a vengeful spirit.

When they get to Peter's house, the ghost of Nick Williams has beat them to it by what looks like several hours. Peter is locked in his bedroom closet, pale and wan, already looking as if he'd lost ten pounds, with hollowed-out cheeks and dark circles under his eyes.

When Dean tries to pull him out, the pallid, emaciated form of a teenage boy slams against his back, trying to get him in a chokehold. Sam blows Nick away with a load of rock salt, and Dean manages to get Peter free before Nick comes back.

Another shotgun blast gives them enough time to call Peter's mother. Turns out both his parents work, and they hadn't yet realized he was in trouble. Dean debates calling 911, but Peter's not in that bad a shape and there would be too many questions for his parents to answer if the authorities get involved. The kid has what looks like a good home, might as well do what they can to make sure he gets to keep it.

Sam settles Peter on his bed while Dean talks on the phone. He doesn't bother trying to explain who he is to Peter's mother, just tells her to come home, and that if she has any questions to contact Ida Reynolds.

By the time Sam comes back with a glass of water for the kid, Dean realizes Nick hasn't come back yet, which means he probably isn't going to.

"What do you think?" he says to Sam. "Foster parents now? Or Ida?" He feels his stomach contract with fear. He likes Ida.

Sam shrugs. "One or the other." He helps Peter sit up to sip weakly at the water. "Just a few swallows for now. Any more might make you sick." Peter sinks back down onto his pillows, swallowing roughly and gazing up at Sam in confusion.

"Your mom is on her way home," Dean tells him. "Me and him are gonna head out now." He gestures at Sam.

"Nick?" Peter whispers, fear in his eyes.

Sam nods. "We'll take care of him." It sounds nicer than Sam means it, although, knowing Sam, he probably feels sorry for a damned ghost who's going around killing his friends just because they ended up with families that give a crap.

"We were so lucky, Andy and Tommy and me," Peter says softly. "Nick – I don't know why no one wanted him, he was a great guy. My best friend. Why would he –" he breaks off, closing his eyes wearily.

"He was hurt." Sam shrugs. "Angry and jealous. It'll be okay, we'll take care of him," he repeats.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Come on, Florence Nightingale, let's go."

Instead of rushing off to rescue the foster parents, they decide to hit the cemetery first. It's getting dark, and it's probably better to take of Nick before he decides to go after Ida Reynolds. Neither one of them mentions that if Nick's ghost manages to scare the hell out of the abusive assholes who starved him to death before Sam and Dean manage to torch his corpse, well, them's the breaks.

They dig up Nick's grave and salt and burn the body with a minimum of fuss. This isn't the same as what they did with Dad's body, Dean knows it isn't, but somehow he's having a hard time feeling the difference. He sets his jaw and gets through it, like he always does.

They stop at Ida's house to let her know the job is done and to make sure she's safe.

"Is Nick at rest now, do you think?" she asks.

Dean doesn't answer, leaves it to Sam. Sam has no idea, neither one of them do, but he gives Ida some mumbo jumbo about moving on to a better place.

Dean never really thinks about that part of the job. The dead aren't the point; the living are.

*

By unspoken agreement, they spend the night at the Night Owl Inn on the outskirts of town.

Dean calls first shower, which is fine with Sam. But then it's Sam's turn, and when he comes out of the bathroom, Dean is sitting on the side of his bed, with a towel still wrapped around his hips. His elbows rest on his knees, and he's staring at his clasped hands.

"Dean?"

Dean lifts his head, and Sam's breath catches in his chest. Dean looks unutterably sad. He stares at Sam a minute, then Sam watches while Dean gathers himself together, watches the walls go back up.

"No, come on, Dean," Sam says. "Don't." He moves across the room, losing his own towel as he goes. Dean's eyes widen at Sam's approach, and Sam smiles down at him.

"Come on," he says again. He plants a hand in the middle of Dean's chest and pushes.

"Hey, watch it," Dean says, but he lands on his elbows and scoots up the bed, ending up in a truly decadent sprawl, his head on the pillow and his legs spread, one knee bent invitingly. "See something you like, sailor?" he asks, waggling his eyebrows.

It's about seventy-five percent front, Sam knows this, but he goes for it anyway, lets Dean get away with it.

"I think I do, sweetheart," he answers, and Dean splutters in indignation.

Sam spreads himself out on top of his brother, shower-damp skin against Dean's warmth. He kisses Dean carefully, fiercely, needing to reassure and possess at the same time. He really thinks Dean has no idea how much Sam needs him.

Dean wraps his arms around Sam's shoulders, tilting his head back and exposing his neck. There's a place, right under Dean's ear, that never fails to have him writhing under Sam, pleading breathlessly with Sam to fuck him.

Sam exploits it ruthlessly, until he's sucked enough blood to the surface of Dean's skin to mark him.

"Come on, Sam, come on," Dean pants. "Do it, do it."

Sam is more than happy to oblige. Fucking Dean is always worth the effort it sometimes takes to get them both on the same page.

Dean arches into him and Sam is undone by how sweetly he gives it up.

After, Sam doesn't even have to wrestle Dean into submission to get him to let Sam spoon up behind him while they fall asleep.

It's nice, for a change.

*

The drive back to Bobby's the next day is just about as quiet as the ride to Des Moines had been, if a little less tense. Dean seems more lost in thought than pissed off and withdrawn.

Dean's tapes are in a battered cardboard box sitting on top of the dresser in Bobby's spare bedroom, along with a ton of other crap that'd been in the car when they'd been hit. Most of their weapons are piled under a tarp in the garage.

Sam makes an attempt to find a classic rock station, but the best he can do is either NPR or outlaw country. Neither of those things is something both he and Dean can tolerate, so they drive in silence most of the way.

Finally, when they're about an hour away from Bobby's, Sam picks up a chord or two he recognizes from _Bad Moon Rising_ amid the static, and he breathes a sigh of relief, turning the volume up.

Dean doesn't say anything, just stares out over the wheel at the road the way he's been doing for however many hundreds of miles they've driven.

"Should we pick up something to eat in case Bobby doesn't feel like feeding us?" Sam tries. He gets a grunt and a shrug in reply.

"You know, fuck you, Dean," Sam says.

"Right back atcha, Sammy," Dean replies, and that's the extent of their conversation.

When they get back to Bobby's there's only a small amount of daylight left, but that doesn't stop Dean from heading outside to the yard, not even bothering to eat any of the cheeseburgers they picked up.

Sam sighs. He's tucking the bag holding Dean's burgers into the refrigerator when he hears Bobby come in.

"Your brother gonna eat?" Sam shakes his head, and Bobby glances out the window, a frown on his face. "He out there with that car already? Not much daylight left."

"I know, Bobby," Sam says.

Bobby dumps the bag with the remaining burgers onto the table and after unwrapping each one to check for pickles, he selects one, grabs a beer and sits down to eat.

Sam goes over to the window and stares out at his brother, watches while he works in the deepening twilight. Dean has a rag in his hand and he's smoothing it across the trunk lid. He'd had to replace it after what he'd done to it when they'd gotten back from Wisconsin, although he hasn't painted it yet.

Sam is struck by how sad Dean looks, now that he's not putting up his usual tough-guy front. He works on the car with love in every touch, and Sam suddenly understands.

He could kick himself for taking so long to get it.

Sam's spent most of his life in that car. He feels more at home there than he ever did in any of the motels, apartments, and rental houses they've lived in. It's been a constant presence that he's pretty much taken for granted.

He finally sees what his brother is doing.

*

Dean doesn't often apologize, not with words, anyway. He's not a fan of big, heartfelt speeches.

There was that time he'd accidentally shot Sam while he was aiming at the angry spirit of an old farmer who was trying to lure kids to his abandoned property and drown them in the well, but it had only been rock salt, and it had really only grazed Sam's arm.

Sam hadn't given a second thought to it not being an accident, until Dean had actually apologized. Dean had been pretty ticked off at Sam for the whole Flagstaff adventure, but Sam hadn't thought of a shoulder full of rock salt as retaliation for him taking off, until Dean had told him he was sorry.

So, yeah, when Dean says he's sorry, Sam gets a little suspicious.

Dean's more of an action kind of guy. If he steps on Sam's toes, he'll buy him a beer, find a restaurant with a more varied menu than ten kinds of cheeseburgers, or give Sam a brief respite from the mullet rock in the car.

So, a week after they get back from Des Moines, when Dean gives him a sideways look after supper and says, "Hey, Sam, come out here, I want to show you something," holding the door to Bobby's yard open and ushering Sam through it, Sam thinks maybe this is his apology for being such a moody bastard over the past month.

This last week, Dean's seemed a little lighter, a little less angry. He's still reeling from Dad's death and the implications of it, which they are _not_ talking about, but he's at least stopped taking his anger out on Sam, for the most part, anyway.

He's stopped acting as if he expects to wake up one morning and find Sam _gone._

Sam will take it.

They move together out into the yard, broken cars and stacked parts all around them. The evening sun slants off chrome, and there are tires piled haphazardly at the edge of the fence.

It's quiet out here with no dogs to greet them. Bobby still hasn't replaced Rumsfeld, and Sam feels a stab of guilt for leading Meg here. Turned out to be a bad idea all around.

Sam follows Dean to where he's been working on the Impala. He circles the car, walking slowly and peering in the windows. He opens the passenger side door and runs his hand over the leather seats. He doesn't think Dean needed to replace them, but it couldn't have been easy to get the bloodstains out. Sam's smile fades as he remembers how badly hurt Dean had been even before they'd gotten blind-sided by the semi. How badly the demon had hurt him, and how much Sam had wanted to shoot the son of a bitch, not caring, for just an instant, that it was wearing his father's body.

If Dean hadn't pleaded with him, Sam doesn't know what he would have done. The demon had been hurting his brother and for the space of a heartbeat, Sam didn't care who he had to kill to make it stop.

He shakes his head, shakes off the memories. Dean's watching him, and Sam pulls his hand back, closes the door. He sees, out of the corner of his eye, that the little green army man that's been crammed into the ashtray in the back seat since Sam was about seven years old is still stuck.

He knows better than to think Dean missed it or didn't know it was there. A feeling of warmth goes through him, coiling in his belly.

"Do you remember that time Dad drove straight through from Albuquerque to Buffalo without stopping?" Sam asks. Dean frowns, then the corner of his mouth twitches.

"Yeah, I remember. The trip that never ended."

"I was, what, about eight? I thought we were gonna spend the rest of our lives in the car. I thought we were gonna live in her."

Dean laughs. "I thought Dad had lost his mind."

"It wasn't so bad," Sam says. He runs his hand over the trunk, smooth and perfect in the sun. He looks at Dean, willing him to look back.

Their eyes meet and Sam knows he's got about thirty seconds to be sappy, so he just goes for it.

"Thanks, Dean."

Dean stares at him, and then sputters, indignation all over his face. He points his finger at Sam in what Sam is sure Dean thinks is a menacing way.

"Dude! Not cool."

Sam raises his hands. "Sorry, sorry." But when he smiles, Dean smiles back.


End file.
